


All You Need Is Love

by icarryasonicscrewdriver



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarryasonicscrewdriver/pseuds/icarryasonicscrewdriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "Rain-drenched hair" from evayna, which my brain took in a very odd direction. Apologies.</p><p>John finds himself mothering Sherlock during a stressful case while hiding his romantic feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pick Up Your Toys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evayna](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=evayna).



> The genre(s) they have requested is(are): Fluffy, Casefic. 
> 
> My mad brain went: "rain-drenched hair? Long hair. Needs hair cut. John will need to tell him..." and, well, you'll see.
> 
> I tried to keep it fluffy as fluff seems more my thang.
> 
> An extra special, pelvic-thrusting thanks to Serellie for being the best beta in beta history.

The light through 221b’s front windows cast a warm glow upon the sitting room whereupon John and Sherlock were spending the afternoon. The sounds of cars sloshing by, a fresh cup of tea, and warm biscuits from Mrs. Hudson completed the scene as John scrolled lazily through e-mails on his computer, his phone sitting quietly on the arm of the chair. Every moment or so he’d risk a glance at his flatmate, who’s tight-fitting, grey shirt and black trousers were giving John ideas.

It was on days such as this that John had a difficult time keeping his mind from wandering into dangerous places. They were just so comfortable together in this sitting room—perfect companions to each others' madness—John couldn't help but imagine how easy it would be to wrap his arms around Sherlock, and cuddle him close in the warmth of the flat. 

That is, until one, very bored, consulting detective opened his mouth and pulled John back to reality.

“Has old age set in so quickly that he is incapable of responding?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, to no one in particular. He tugged on his curls in aggravation and pulled his red robe in annoyance. The pout he was unconsciously sporting gave John a strange, warm feeling. 

“I’m sure Greg has better things to do at the moment than answer a text,” John responded with a tired sigh, trying to mollify Sherlock’s mood. 

Sherlock looked back at John, his eyes narrowing and his nose raising toward the ceiling as he was want to do when John was being particularly dim, “he needs me for this case; a body was found this morning,” John considered him suspiciously: “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I heard it on the news. A body was found in a house near Clapham Road.” Sherlock sat down in a huff before adding, “Are you sure your mobile is even working?” as he jumped up again to poke John’s phone. 

“Yes, actually, and if you’re so concerned then why don’t you use your own?” John countered, lowering the lid to his laptop as he prepared for a harsh retort. The plaid blanket, comfortable chair, and knit jumper which surrounded the doctor did nothing to hide his exasperation.

Sherlock turned towards the window, probably hoping to delay his answer long enough for John to give up. When he found that John was still waiting, he responded,“I...may have...in so many words...broken it,” his voice belied his perturbation. He pretended to find something very interesting on the street below. 

John shook his head; he was feeling more and more like Sherlock’s guardian than friend. “You broke it? Your brand new mobile?! We just bought that phone! Sherlock, we don’t have the funds for you to go off breaking your...toys!” John was the one pulling at his hair now. “How on Earth did that--” 

“Experiment, John. I needed to see if it would survive a fall--”

“So you used your own, working phone?!”

“--and continue to transmit sound as it did so! If you’d just list--”

“If YOU would just listen then we might be able to afford--”

By the grace of some deity John’s phone chirped in with a new message. Leaping with all the grace of a drunk ballerina, Sherlock flung himself at John’s mobile. His body leaned close to John’s seated form, and John found himself staring at the straining buttons of Sherlock’s shirt while he waited to hear what Greg had to say. 

Sherlock's knee nudged John's accidentally. “Ah HA! You see?! I told you! Oh this is brilliant! Just as I suspected, the murderer strikes again! It’s the same one--has to be. Come along, John!” Sherlock ejaculated, spinning toward the door while replying to the text one-handedly...before tripping over his own laptop on the way, and landing face-first by the coat-rack, his massive ego doing little to cushion his fall. 

John hurried over frantically, reaching to help Sherlock to his feet and assess the damage. “Sherlock! Bloody hell, are you alright?” Sherlock looked back with a hint of aggravation, before leaping back onto his feet. “This wouldn’t happen if you put your damn things away! When we get home, you’re tidying up!” John declared, following Sherlock to the door.

“Fine, yes, fine,” Sherlock mumbled back.

“You’re not even listening,” John began, “I shouldn’t have to say those things,” he continued, his voice distressed, “I’m not your moth--er.” John’s words caught in his throat as his flatmate slid off his robe to reveal the back of the earlier-mentioned, form-fitting trousers, somehow tighter than he'd remembered, before sliding on his coat. John looked away quickly, masking his face in innocence. 

Even wrapped up in the excitement of the case, Sherlock caught something of what John had been thinking. “Obviously, John,” Sherlock said as per-usual to such an obvious statement, but the corner of his mouth seemed to spasm upwards for a quarter-second, before he turned back to the mobile and began down the stairs. 

“Right, yes,” a rather flushed John responded, also taking his own coat and following behind, his thoughts floating off elsewhere as he joined Sherlock in a cab. Their legs briefly touched as he pulled the door shut and he felt a fluttering in his stomach, before shifting away to look out the window at the passing buildings. 

He wondered at the perversion of his own mind to, simultaneously, think of himself as Sherlock’s mum, but also want to shag him. Luckily, Sherlock seemed too preoccupied with John’s phone to observe anything about John’s behavior.

John decided that it wouldn't do to have Sherlock become aware of these feelings when the analytical, “could-have-had-Irene-if-he'd-wanted-but-didn't” Sherlock obviously probably didn't return them. 

Why risk what they had?

The passing buses splashed puddle-water onto John's window, shaking him from his thoughts. He could admire Sherlock from the window's reflection when the background was dark enough.

He couldn't help but notice what the humidity did to Sherlock's curls. He'd need a trim soon. 

He could grip those.

His lips formed a lop-sided grin without his permission, and he caught Sherlock's eyes staring back at him in the glass—a curiously-knowing eyebrow raised in John's direction.

John gulped.

The cab stopped.


	2. Be Nice to Others

“Brilliant, Anderson. Brilliant. Moving the body before anyone could take a photo. Just brilliant. Killers never leave clues in body-positioning. Idiot!” Sherlock was, as usual, circling the crime scene. The room was damp and ill-lit, flecks of dust glowing in the forensics team’s floodlights. For anyone paying attention, the green-black wallpaper pattern was reminiscent of the late Victorian age, but was clearly a reprint; the floor tiles’ colors were indiscernible through the years of dirt and grime: much of which Sherlock was kneeling in as he eyed the body. It had probably been used as a bed and breakfast, but had not been occupied for at least ten years. A leaky roof had expedited the rotting process for much of the room.

“Damn it! I didn't—” Anderson attempted to respond.

“How, exactly, was the body positioned when you got here?” Lestrade groaned. 

“Like that! I, nor anyone on my team, have moved it since we arrived. Basic protocol! I  
don’t know what he’s doing here, Sir, but if he’s going to insult me like tha—”

“Oh…OH! That! Yes! Oh it’s obvious! Isn't it obvious? Why isn't it obvious? Don’t you see‽” Sherlock held his hands out wide, his head and eyes darting back and forth between all the living bodies in the room, his expression both incredulous and mocking. John couldn't help but love that look of brilliance, but he did mind the rudeness. 

John saved everyone else the effort by replying sharply, “No, we don’t. Please explain it to us  
simpletons.”

Sherlock, undeterred by John’s tone continued, “Come on! Look! The body has been turned!  
And not right after the murder, no! Look at the way the blood has set in her left arm, and see how her clothes have picked up the dirt from the floor on this side, but it’s still thick on her right. She was set on her side; the body fell onto its back within the last half-hour. Maybe by gravity, maybe from Anderson’s entire team stomping their way up the stairs of a centuries-old home, but still—“

“Wait, Sherlock. Why is that important?” John prompted, hoping to direct Sherlock to a point.

“They were all found propped on their sides. All nine murder victims were found lying on their  
left sides. Why their sides? Why left? It’s not accidental. This takes effort to push the victims onto their sides after murdering them…but why?” Sherlock glanced off to the wall in thought, his face softening momentarily in realization, but masking quickly into a blank expression.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade spoke up, “Other bodies? You’re trying to link this to a couple of cold cases?” Lestrade waited for a response but, getting none, continued on a different path, “Why is this positioning important anyway?”

Sherlock waved him off, “Not sure yet. Keep Anderson working hard on this. I’m sure he’ll come  
up with something ingenious. Come along, John.” Sherlock moved to hurry out of the room, his coat swinging behind him, before John stopped him.

“Sherlock.” John said sternly, in his best “dad” voice, “You owe Anderson an apology.” 

Sherlock had never looked taller as he rose to full height and stuck his chin up, his body language screaming his vexation at John’s insistence that he subscribe to the same social niceties as everyone else. He eyed John for only a moment as John, too, straightened his stance and returned Sherlock’s glare.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with annoyance before something else, something John couldn't name, set in.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and turned to Anderson; looking at the floor, he said flatly, “sorry,” before turning toward the door. 

Anderson didn’t even wait a full second before replying: “What, afraid your mum is going to spank you?” he said, his voice dripping in disgust. 

“Drop it, Anderson,” Lestrade cut in. “He’s apologized.”

Sherlock, not one to let Anderson get off so easily, stopped in the doorway, “Yes, but only if I’m very good,” Sherlock added with a smirk, leaving everyone in the room with their mouths gaping open.

John could feel his face heating up. It was as if Sherlock had heard his every thought from earlier that day. Still, John resigned himself, Sherlock’s always been so…un-sexual. Surely this was just a way to get under Anderson’s skin, not that Sherlock couldn't use a good spanking— and not that John didn't want to give him one. 

That had to be the case, John finally decided, as he saw the repulsion that had taken over Anderson’s face: Sherlock was simply joking, and, in his lack of social skills, didn't understand what was so wrong with what he’d said. 

John was the first to speak, the other’s waiting to hear what kind of response he’d have, “Well, I guess I should be, uh, leaving too.” He nodded at the officers before departing as well to find his friend.


	3. Eat Your Greens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short.

It had been at least two days since he’d seen Sherlock eat.John was trying to push toast into his flatmate’s mouth whilst said flatmate perched on the couch, legs crossed, facing the kitchen, immobile in thought. It was obvious (to Sherlock, at least) that the series of murders, several of which had occurred more than ten years in the past, were committed by the same man. Now he just had to find the connection and the man (or woman). This left him rooms-deep in his mind palace.

Photographs and paper-clippings were strewn across the table next to him, but even the gruesome pictures they displayed could not keep his mind out of the gutter.

“Open,” John said, to which Sherlock robotic-ly complied, mouth gaping wide not unlike a baby bird. John pushed a piece of toast into Shelock’s mouth, watching the way a piece of red jam stuck to Sherlock’s upper lip. He marveled at the way his thumb and forefinger fit inside the detective’s mouth as the warmed bread was pushed inside. He rubbed the crumbs off his hands and back onto the napkin upon which sat the rest of the toast. 

There was a pause before John remembered: “Chew….and swallow. Good.” John stood above Sherlock, brushing a napkin across Sherlock’s mouth and catching a few crumbs that had fallen on his blue shirt. John watched as those crumbs fell onto Sherlock’s lap and thought about what kind of line it would cross to reach down and brush those away as well. 

John smirked down at his friend and wondered at the genius that was behind those silver eyes,  
the words just waiting to burst from that gorgeous mouth, and the marks that could be made on that pale neck.

“Open,” he stuck another piece inside, but this time Sherlock’s mouth closed on its own, suckling slightly at the fingers before John pulled them back to let Sherlock chew. 

John shook his head to clear it and returned to his task, jumping slightly as Sherlock’s eyes darted to his briefly. Only John, and maybe Mycroft, would have noticed the slightest, quickest grin to Sherlock’s face before he slipped back into his palace.

“Open,” John continued, staring back at the detective. He’d have to look further into this new behavior; some things were adding up that confused John. Did Sherlock think more of him than just a friend and, whatever the hell it was he was doing that the moment? Was Sherlock trying to tell him to make a move, or was he really responding innocently? 

He might have to make a mind palace of his own. Well, mind tent, if he were more honest with himself. Maybe a cupboard.


	4. Go To Bed!

John found himself counting the hours since he had last seen Sherlock sleep. It had been four days ago, since before the phone-breaking incident, as John could recall, that he’d found his flatmate curled up on the sofa in the middle of the day. 

Having determined a connection between this murder and several others spanning from five to possibly ten years ago, Sherlock was spending every moment on the case. In fact, he’d woken John early to run to the morgue this morning just as Molly arrived at work. 

John watched his sleepy friend swaying as he looked over the now autopsied body of the latest victim laid out on the cold slab.

Sherlock was eyeing the pigment on the victim’s wrist, and studying the report of the various chemicals found underneath her fingernails. “Hummm, polyvinal acetate, are you sure?” he questioned Molly, turning away to hide the yawn that had come upon him.

“Uh, huh…yes. It took a while, but…I ran a full report. I really shouldn't let you see that, Sherlock…” she paused, and gave a resigned sigh, “but hopefully it will help you find the killer.” Molly looked up encouragingly.

“Thank you, Molly,” John piped in and waited.

The detective picked up on the hint. “Yes, well, um,” Sherlock looked briefly at John, “Of course, thank you,” he added, with a forced smile. John felt a touch of pride to hear Sherlock say the phrase with such little prompting, but he knew something else was going on in that big brain.

When they were safely outside of the building John spoke up, “What was that all about,  
Sherlock? I know that face. You know something. Out with it.”

“I have an idea about the case, but we’ll need to get into our victim’s apartment. Lestrade’s men will have had their way with it by now, but hopefully they haven’t touched anything important.” Sherlock continued scowling, but his exhaustion showed in his expression. “We’ll have to wait until it’s dark to go in there: can’t be seen breaking into the flat of a freshly-dead woman.”

“Yes, that certainly would ruin our image.”

Sherlock resorted to a eye-roll in response.

“Well, good. Then you can sleep in the meantime,” John stated matter-of-factly as they waited for their cab to ease to a stop.

Sherlock opened the back door of the vehicle. “John,” he started off, clearly frustrated, though his tone lacked its usual bite, “You know that sleep slows me down. No, I need to think, and to find what I still can about the other victims: any documents their loved ones may have kept. Things of this nature are so rare these days…” Sherlock trailed off. There was a definite fatigue to his voice. 

“Fine,” John began, “but all I’m saying is that your deductions are slowing and it’s clearly from  
your lack of sleep! Every brain needs sleep to function. Even yours.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but another yawn came out instead. John felt another flutter in his stomach, but pushed it away.

“Trust me,” John said with some force, “I’m your doctor.”

“Fine, but only if you’ll join me,” Sherlock said, his tired eyes looking quite seductive in the dimness of the backseat.

“Excuse me?” John kept his voice flat, thinking it might be another, odd Sherlock joke.

Sherlock paused, seeming to change his mind about his response before continuing. “You look exhausted as well,” Sherlock said, punctuating with, yet another eye-roll.

John shook his head, “Yes, I probably will catch some sleep too. Heaven only knows what hour we’ll be getting home.”

He thought he heard Sherlock sigh but he couldn't be sure, and he also couldn't be sure what that sigh meant: did Sherlock really want to sleep with him or was he being aggravating like always?

“My bed’s a bit…” Sherlock started, oddly hopeful.

“Of a mess?” John supplied, “great.”

“Yes,” Sherlock looked back.

“You always prefer the sofa anyway,” John helpfully stated.

“…yes, of course,” Sherlock looked away, shoulders slumping slightly.

When they got back to the flat, John went to Sherlock’s room to assess the damage, proclaiming to the flat that fumigation was probably necessary.

As he huffed his way out of the room he caught sight of a sleeping detective on their sofa; knees pulled up to his chest, dirty shoes leaving bits of grime on the fabric. He’d get mad about that later: right now he had to cover Sherlock with the plaid blanket.

It took quite a bit of will-power not to add a quick peck on the forehead.


	5. Wash Behind Your Ears

Later that evening, succumbing to a nap himself, John was awoken by a rested, coat-ed, and scarf-ed Sherlock. Having decided that it was finally dark enough to enter the victim’s flat, it was the perfect time for a break-in. 

It was in the middle of this felony when the unfortunate woman’s flatmate entered their home, and John and Sherlock were forced to share the victim’s cramped clothes closet. John had been quick to pull Sherlock with him into the closet, sticking himself to the side so Sherlock could view out through the crack between the two doors. John’s body was pressed close against Sherlock’s left leg and thigh and he questioned whether or not Sherlock really needed to push his leg between John’s own at such an angle. 

“She has a flatmate?” John whispered, visibly annoyed.

“Of course she does. Didn't you see the color of her nails?”

No, John hadn't. And even if he had, there’s a slim chance it would have led him to realizing  
that she shared her apartment. John scowled, “Well if you knew, then why didn't you prepare for this?!”

“She should be at work right now. Why is she home? She works at that ridiculous clothing store  
with all of the red mannequins, every day but Thursdays. Why is she home?” He swayed back and forth in thought, the movement of his thigh driving John slightly mad. Did Sherlock know he was doing this? 

“Maybe she’s upset over her friend’s death? Maybe she’s gathering her things so she can go someplace else?” John answered helpfully. 

“Oh. Of course.” Sherlock said firmly.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“I…get that it’s a plausible reason…Sentiment?”

John just snickered, thankful that she had put the telly on, and hoping that the woman had no need to open that particular closet any time soon. Although, John thought, she could use a good cleaning. Something smelled foul.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. The sleeve of a hanging jacket falling in front of his face momentarily. He pushed it away and could see Sherlock’s eyes scanning as they caught the light from the crack between the doors, but there was plenty of time to look for clues later, “Sherlock, when was the last time you bathed?” 

“I don’t bathe, John. I’m not a child.” Sherlock answered, his voice conveying an eye-roll John didn't have to see.

John thought for a moment before replying, “I saw you come out of the shower on…Saturday.”  
And what a sight that was, John’s brain supplied, along with images of the dripping, towel-clad  
detective. He found himself unconsciously squirming against Sherlock’s leg, and stopped himself. “That was five days ago.”

There was no response from the taller man.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Five days? With all that running around you did on Monday, and the trips to the morgue, and the—God Sherlock—and the horrid, filthy crime scene? You smell like you've run a marathon, took a swim in the Thames, and sat in a funeral parlor for three days,” though John realized the smell did nothing to cool his blood as Sherlock’s leg continued to stretch itself between his. 

“Yes, John. Some of us are more concerned with finding a killer than spending precious time  
bathing,” Sherlock spat back. 

John just smiled “Right. You’re so noble. Fine, but as soon as we get home you are taking a quick shower. That’s just…” 

“She’s gone again,” Sherlock cut in, seconds after the young woman had shut the door  
to the flat, taking her first trip to the car with packed boxes. He opened the doors to the closets, and John was momentarily sad for the loss of the warm body next to his, “I've seen all I require; we should depart before she comes back for the next load. John, I’ll need you to stop by Scotland Yard for the files on other victims. Lestrade has them ready.” They stepped out of the flat and headed toward the stairs at the back of the building.

“And why can’t you do it? Lazy sod,” John glared.

“I have a shower to take,” Sherlock grinned back. 

Would you like company?John’s brain unhelpfully added. 

As if he knew what John had been thinking, Sherlock gave John’s body a good, hard look up and down before catching his eye, “I've been able to shower myself for years, John, although a bath does sound splendid.” John wasn't sure if Sherlock meant to sound seductive or if he was just being a bastard again, but John answered before he could decide.

“I’ll, uh, just go get those files.”


	6. Don't Go Out in the Rain!

Less than 24 hours later found Sherlock running out the door to their flat, not even stopping to get a ride. All of the clues had finally fallen into place, and the identity of the killer was reasoned. He wanted to move fast before the man had a chance to strike again or go into hiding.

“It’s raining!” John yelled after his friend who had already made it past the edge of Baker Street,  
deciding to leave off the “you’ll catch your death of cold” that mummy Watson was known to add.  
John grabbed the nearest cab and jumped inside its cover in protection from the downpour, instructing the driver to the location of a private painting instructor under the name of Mr. Box.

Upon arrival at a very modern flat he found the door unlocked and was led to the suspect’s room by the sound of Sherlock’s deep voice, unmistakably in the midst of attempting to talk his way out of a tricky situation. Sherlock really could do wonders with that voice.

When he stepped into the room it was just as he assumed: Sherlock was in a stance of surrender as Mr.Box pointed a rather large knife his way. 

John thought fast and dove at the man’s side, knocking the knife free from his grip and forcinghim to the ground. John struggled with the man momentarily, knocking into a few, unfinished paintings of big, white, fluffy kittens and a sturdy table, before the suspect gave in, realizing that he was outnumbered. 

John took a second to look back at Sherlock to check if he was alright, but instead found  
Lestrade and his men running up the stairs and into the room, ready to take over.

It wasn’t long before the suspect was in custody and Sherlock was spewing his observations: amisplaced pen here, a wash towel there, a butter knife on the other side, and a few handwritten notes had given Sherlock all the evidence he needed to decide that every victim had been left-handed. A shared love for painted art and a hurried note written about classes on one’s calendar had Sherlock on the path to deciding Mr. Box’s guilt: an angry, mad, private art teacher who had trouble teaching left-handed students—something about holding their brushes “unnaturally”.

John couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his lips after Sherlock had ended his speech, just asSherlock couldn’t help his perplexed expression that John would find this all so very funny. How he could see though his rain-drenched hair, John didn’t know, but it did squash the indignant expression a bit.

Lestrade took down the details and quickly exited the room as he sensed a quarrel brewing. 

Sherlock’s face was enraged: “What on Earth is so hilarious, John?”

“You.”

Sherlock sputtered, droplets of water flying as he flung his head around, “Me?” he turned up his nose, “I understand that it’s difficult for such an idiot to see the connection between Box and the murders, but surely you’ve known me long enough to appreciate the process!”

“Of course I do. And you’re the idiot, by the way.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m laughing,” John paused, catching his breath, “because you are soaked through! How can you stand there, dripping, waving your arms about,and all the while you haven’t moved your sopping hair from your eyes. And how did you ever let it get this long?” 

Sherlock seethed with embarrassed anger. Normally he had John to tell him he was brilliant and  
wonderful after a case, and now John was laughing at him. 

Of course, John noticed. “Oh, come here you silly man,” John said, reaching up to brush the sticky curls from Sherlock’s forehead. The rain showed no signs of slowing outside, and the patter of it on the roof echoed through the room.

Some of the rage lifted from the detective’s face, but his eyes were still tapered in annoyance.

“We’ll have to get it cut—after you rest. And after you eat something. And even after you take a  
hot shower so you don’t catch cold,” John chided gently.

 

Sherlock’s expression was still tight, his forehead crinkled in irritation.

“And stop frowning!” John shook his head. “You need me to tell you, don’t you? Not just all that  
about eating and sleeping, but to tell you that you’re brilliant? Well, you are. You’re the cleverest man I know,” John lifted himself on his toes and gave Sherlock a peck on his still-wet forehead, “and one of the most ridiculous,” he added. 

Sherlock’s face shifted to one of disbelief. “Why did you do that?”

John shifted and looked away from Sherlock for a moment before replying, “I’m not sure, I just—”

“No,” Sherlock cut off, “why did you do that on my forehead?” He asked, a slightly indignant tone in his voice. “ I've given you every sign that I consent to taking this relationship further, and yet you still treat me as a child! I don’t need another mother, John.” 

“Oh that,” John let out a slight giggle, “because your breath is horrid. You've not  
brushed in a week, have you? Must I mention that too? Have you even used the toilet recently? Are you wearing clean pants?” John was fully laughing now. “Who doesn't need another mother?”

“Hilarious, John,” Sherlock began walking out of the room in an air of feigned annoyance before he paused, turned back, and added, “how did I ever survive without you?” his voice lacking its usual sarcasm. 

Then his face lit up again. “By the way, would you like to check?” he added.

“What?” John asked, confused.

“If I’m wearing any pants at all,” Sherlock smirked, stepping out of the room for John to follow, all the while deciding how best to do just that.


	7. Find Someone!

The next morning, feeling well-rested, full, and completely clean, a newly-showered Sherlock  
stalked into John’s room. The poor doctor had come home and collapsed into bed, still clothed, and wearing the previous day’s dirt.

Sherlock threw his towel at John’s head to wake him.

“Sher—what the hell? It’s—“ John’s speech was cut off as he realized what– or whom –was  
at the edge of his bed: a very naked consulting detective.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Sherlock smirked back. 

John sat up and reached for Sherlock, but he drew back. 

“Um, no. Your breath is terrible, you haven’t eaten in 18 hours—far too long for you—and I can  
see by the bags under your eyes that you’ll need at least 5 more hours of sleep. I’ll just leave you to it then,” Sherlock said cheekily as he turned to leave the room, obviously intent on getting back at John.

“Hilarious, Sherlock!” John yelled as he watched that perfect arse sway through his doorway. 

John paused for a moment, his mind racing to decide what that was all about. Was this all a joke to Sherlock? Did he even want a relationship or was it all some sick experiment?

He peeked an eye open just in time to see his still very naked, very worried flatmate rush back into the room, arms waving madly in annoyance and excitement. “I was just joking John! For heaven’s sake!”

John must have looked back oddly because Sherlock added, “I could hear your thinking from the other room. Heavens, John. I come to you, nude, and you’re still wondering if I share your desire?”

John had to laugh at that response, as he pulled back the covers, beckoning Sherlock to join him in their warmth.

His hand again found its way to Sherlock’s wet hair and pulled him in for a kiss, staring slow, but leaving them both breathless.

They paused only at the sound of John’s stomach grumbling in hunger. 

John chuckled, “I think I can wait. Food slows me down anyway,” he replied, doing his best  
imitation of Sherlock, as moved in again, kissing Sherlock passionately.

“You are insufferable, John,” Sherlock muttered as well as he could, face flushed. He crossed his arms and feigned a pout for effect.

“Yes, but you need me,” John teased, pulling down on Sherlock’s bottom lip playfully.

Sherlock’s expression became very serious, “Yes, John. I do need you, but not as my parent.” 

John's features showed his skepticism.

"...well, yes, I do need you to remind me of the more trivial parts of life--"

"Eating is not trivial--"

"And I do...appreciate your insights after cases."

John snickered lightly.

"--but I need you more like...this." He wrapped his arms around John tightly, attempting to express his feelings in a way he could not, yet name.

John’s face also shifted, as he sensed the importance of such a touching statement from his normally logical flatmate. John pushed the wet hair from Sherlock’s face (he’d have to go get that trimmed today, or maybe tomorrow) and took Sherlock’s face between his hands before leaning in to kiss the man that he loved. 

"So you understand now?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Of course I do, Sherlock” John smiled down sweetly, “I need you in exactly the same way.”


End file.
